


The Rules of Dating

by themissinglenk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Bad Song Lyrics, Drabbles, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sex, i hate my life, oneshots, sex sex sex, that might connect a little
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themissinglenk/pseuds/themissinglenk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules are simple. Don't date your best friend. Don't date a stripper. Don't throw up on your boyfriend's expensive shoes. Don't tell your parents. Don't date a coworker. Don't believe your first love is going to last; that's why it's called a "first love." But most importantly: don't listen to the rules at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DON’T HAVE DESPERATE MAKEUP SEX IN YOUR BEST FRIEND’S HONEYMOON SUITE.

_April 23, three years ago._

It didn’t occur to him, in the moment, that it was a disturbed and messed-up shallow thing to fuck in the hotel room reserved for your friend’s wedding night, a tangled mess of limbs and gasped apologies and thumbs stroking across the face so hard it pulled your lip back a bit (which was totally all right because you just opened your mouth anyway and took his tongue deep past your teeth).

But, in retrospect—and retrospect for Levi often came in the seconds after dubious behavior, because his conscience was a vindictive tattletale little hole in sweet nothings and dreams and it never let him get away with pretending he wasn’t perfectly ashamed of himself—it was a very disturbed and messed-up shallow thing, and thank God Hanji never found about it.

And in the spirit of being honest with oneself and one’s fuck-ups, Levi was not going to lie. Shitfaced by four o’clock in the afternoon from the wild reception and hurry, hurry, lest anyone see, falling all over Hanji’s hotel room with Erwin as they pried at ties and suits and belts, ready to get nasty before they were even off their feet—hey, it was damn hot.

“Are you done being mad at me?” Erwin whispered against the shell of Levi’s ear, and a deep little shiver rattled its way down the staircase of his spine. He was caught—hook, line, sinker, despite fishing euphemisms being gross and irrelevant. Whiskey was powerful on Erwin’s breath; the cool hint of sweet liquor on his tongue was heady and intimidating. Man. This was a man. This was the man who held Levi’s heart (and consequently his dick, this afternoon) in his large lovely hands, and it was unfortunate because no matter how much Levi wanted to mean it when he said he hated him,  this tall, broad-shouldered, perfect hair, Brad-Pitt-eat-your-heart-out, make-any-member-of-the-female-population-within-a-mile’s-radius-swoon-uncontrollably, smirking Greek god in Hanes boxer briefs _stud_ —

He somehow continued to find himself trembling under those dark suggestive eyes, reduced again and again to the butterflies he’d thought had disappeared with puberty’s worst confusions between lust and love.

 _Ugh_ , why was Erwin still so goddamn _perfect_ when Levi knew all his flaws inside and out?

 “Of course I’m still mad at you,” Levi had hissed, shaking Erwin off at the door to the hotel room. Hanji had sent them to check in for her before the reception was over; Levi had insisted they make sure the key work. And now here they were, just the two of them, and an empty hotel room themed in golds and reds and rose petals.

“You slept with Petra,” Levi seethed, casting Erwin a scathing glance. “ _Again_.”

“You know I have a reputation to uphold.”

_You know that’s a big fat fucking excuse, you unfaithful bag of dickery._

“But you’re the one who’s under my skin…” Erwin’s voice was gravelly, low, dripping down the back of Levi’s neck like sweet poison. An inner tumult knotted in his chest that he struggled to untangle. How could you hate someone but love them so much? How could you turn around and open your arms again to someone who had hurt you so deeply (until you admitted to yourself it was the angst and the twisted sexual tension that you craved)? Was it just the same old trick he surrendered foolishly to, in one fell swoop, over and over again bowing down below the tongue of fatal romancing and a masquerade of sticky charm?

God, fuck it.

Explaining a bond like theirs, such catastrophic and destructive chemistry, was like setting fire to the rain. Erwin was sexy and Levi was drunk and he just couldn’t hate Erwin anymore when Erwin yanked Levi’s shirt out of his suit pants and ran his wide hands up under the shirttails like that.

They stumbled backward together through the hotel door and against the wall behind it, car keys jangling in Erwin’s hand. Oops, there went the hotel key. Better not kick that under the bed on accident. Erwin caught Levi’s lips in a hard kiss, hot silky mouth and chins nodding, mouths working. The kisses were greedy, desperate, hungry, full of raw impulsive passion and a multidimensional need, and Levi groaned at the tang of Erwin’s cologne, the natural sweetness of his wavy blond hair. He leaned full into those possessive arms.  

Blindly, Erwin groped for the hotel door, but Levi refused to unwind himself. Shuffle-step. _Slam._ Erwin’s hands settled greedily at Levi’s hips. Levi arched his back. He let Erwin hoist him up ho-hum and drag him to the king-sized bed where they separated only for one to remove a tie, another a blazer altogether, and then down onto the scarlet coverlet they went, a mess of wandering hands and hot drunken lust. 

Erwin paused to untie Levi’s shoes, tugging him closer by the ankle. His eyes sparked with desire, intense and impatient and brutally hypnotizing. That dry smirk was back and it rattled Levi to the bone with crazy chills. God, had anyone else ever turned him on this much before? _Ever_? Did anyone else stand a chance, or was Levi condemned to this cycle of breaking up, making up, sucking off his boss?

Levi tried to drag Erwin closer, closer, and some foggy memory of a rainy day and a Professor’s Row Tudor peeked out at him from the back of his mind. Coffee. Cigarettes. Scattered papers. Mussed blankets. Low light. Erwin, reading glasses poised atop his head. Levi, fresh out of the vicious media machine and the question of a career shift rolling around in him violently and terrifyingly like the game-changer it was as Jewel echoed from the radio: _Do you need me like I need you, too? Do you want me like I want you?_

He didn’t want to think about Erwin holding Petra against his chest like he held him now, in Hanji’s honeymoon suite. He didn’t want to think about Erwin’s long hot fingers dancing down Petra’s side like they danced down his now, into his pants, sparking impatient delight as they curled on him where he was stiff and sensitive and flushed pink in ready.

There was nothing predatory in Erwin’s piercing stare, just a raw possessive sort of need that terrified Levi for how brazen and intense it seemed. He really meant his apology. He really wanted him. It was a pattern and the pattern was unbreakable and Levi liked how it felt to be looked at that way: as a secret prize. A sanctuary. Someone, something, unlike any other. Something _needed_.

That, or Erwin was really wasted, and so was Levi.

Could’ve been.

Erwin’s hands were bigger than his. They were hot, and strong. They were experienced, too, stripping Levi quickly of his gray slacks and plucking the buttons of his shirt.

Miserably hard. Fingers pried. Desperate heat, desperate embrace. Thumbs brushed hard over nipples. Wide hips digging down sent shockwaves of pleasure and Levi could feel the outline of Erwin’s sex at the fly of his pants, grinding hard against him.

 _He wanted it_.

Forget inhibitions, forget bad feelings, forget past, present, and future, except this moment right here with his tiniest of belches still tasting like rum and Erwin’s glazed eyes glinting like a playful cat’s.

Erwin made him feel so small, tossing him easily to his belly. His mouth was hot and his breath wickedly ticklish as he kissed the back of Levi’s neck, pried deep into all those hot secret places until his hips met Levi’s tailbone. Awkward, delightfully awkward and swollen-feeling, just as he’d memorized it. Darkly exciting, savagely sensual, no-kids-allowed, adults only. “I forgive you, I forgive you, I just get scared you won’t want me anymore…”

“Levi…” Erwin whispered, and Levi could feel his heart pounding against his own, naked chest to naked chest. Mm, Fireball whiskey on the corner of his lip. “I will always, always want you, even when the rest of the world doesn’t, and that’s my cross to bear.”

* * *

_February, two years later.  
_

“Ah… You’re gonna think I’m nuts, but—I swear to God, there are people across the parking lot taking pictures of us.”

“They do that. Don’t worry about it.” Levi lifted his coffee, letting the steam curl against his nose and lips before venturing a slow, thoughtful sip. He cut a glance up. Eren’s face was pinched up like a crumpled paper ball, stuck somewhere awkward and nonplussed between uncomfortable and agitated. He wore a tense and vigilant look like that well, anyway; he was still young enough to, grungy little trust fund baby brat in the midst of young adult rebellion. Too-big thrift shop sweater under that denim and hoodie. Wrinkled baseball tee. Torn jeans. Wallet chain. Sex hair and those electric eyes, God—

“How the hell do you get used to it?” Eren mumbled, slouching low in the coffeehouse chair like the paparazzi didn’t have zoom functions on their expensive cameras. “They’re like fucking mosquitos. Or flies on a corpse.”

“Morbid,” Levi grunted, “but true.”

The busiest Starbucks in Seattle was a whirl of voices and movement around them. Rain slashed against the glass windows; soggy miserable headlights bounced around in the crowded parking lot. The paparazzi were under umbrellas. Levi had already marked them in the periphery on the way in. He could see the tagline under the glossy magazine photo now, in there with the other celebrity couple sightings like he still mattered at all to the world of entertainment (other than for those who simply couldn’t indulge enough in train wrecks and shockers like retired crime drama heartthrobs who just recently waltzed out of the closet): _FORMER CW’S “SURVEY CORPS” LEAD HUNK SPOTTED AGAIN IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST LOCALE WITH A NEW BOY TOY_ , right next to a snapshot or two of another one of Hollywood’s strangely accepted same-sex pairs—the redhead with the DJ girlfriend, or the loving husbands with their kids at Disney. Why the fuck did anyone care again, anyway?

“Can you handle it?” Levi husked, meeting Eren’s glance over the café table.

Eren perked, scowling. Something flashed in his eyes. Any challenge was a worthy challenge to him; that much was clear. “Handle what?” he asked darkly and an image sparked through Levi’s mind, like a flash of light off a mirror, the pass of car lights in an unlit room: an image of Eren prostrate on his knees in Levi’s bed, toes and fingers curling in the undone sheets, moonlight dripping off naked shoulder blades as he turned drunken eyes up on Levi, and the string of spittle snapped from between their tongues—

Sex. Sex with Eren. One-night stand. Zipless fuck. Hookup. Casual. Pretty boy with an old and sharpened soul and those dark, damning eyes—Eren, in his bed. It took a bead of conscious effort not to pause and revel in that luxurious flash of last night’s fun. God, he was so much younger than him, too. Hey, he’d obviously liked it enough to take the kid out for coffee. Right?

But it was impossible to guess just how long Eren would last. It seemed like the only one who wasn’t utterly disgusted or terrified or annoyed by the lingering shreds of Levi’s fifteen minutes of fame (which was years in the past, by the way) was, unfortunately, a certain Mr. Smith of Smith & Zoe Lit. Every other relationship crumbled in the shadow of a supposed-to-be-forgotten career.

“You’re gonna show up in next month’s ‘US Weekly,’” Levi elaborated.

“Good,” Eren spat back, so plainly and simply and defiantly. Levi looked up, startled.

“Good?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

Eren shrugged, fidgeting in his seat. Finally he seemed satisfied with that same grumpy slouch, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “I could use some publicity,” he explained, and Levi couldn’t tell if his indifference was real or not.

“I’m sorry?” Levi cocked a brow.

“My band.”

Ah, that’s right. Eren the trust fund baby with the famous doctor dad and his little college baby dream of being a rock star. Forgot about that part. Too stuck on remembering the way his moans tasted.

“Remember the Titans, right?” Levi grunted noncommittally.

Eren’s eyes sparked, insulted. “No. _Titan_ —short for _Titanomachia_. That epic about ‘War of the Titans.’”                 

“I know the epic.” Levi paused, for some reason rather tickled by such a pretentious band name. “Your band, huh? Don’t tell me you’re using me as a career stunt, you little shit.”

“Not using you.” Eren paused, his own shade of dramatic effect. His eyes jumped past Levi for a moment; he was probably surveying the U-Village parking lot for those motherfuckers with their cameras again. He seemed satisfied with what he found, which was apparently nothing. They’d probably disappeared from sight by now, racing to the presses. It wasn’t like Levi was Britney Spears or anything. Eren drew a breath, capturing Levi’s attention again.

“I think I can handle a few pictures in the gossip rags, is all I’m saying.”

“Listen…” Levi sighed, drumming his fingers on the side of his coffee cup. “I like you. I really do. I admire your iron will, I mean. Twelve credits of school, a part-time job, _and_ a pet project garage band…”

Eren choked on his latte at that one, but he was too busy trying not to drown to argue much beyond a wide-eyed and pointed look that Levi translated easily as: _Not a pet project garage band, you asshole, a real band with real shows and real merit._

“Has ‘The Stranger’ written about you yet?” Levi pried.

“Yes. Yes, actually. They have.”

Guess it was more than a pet project, then. Levi shrugged. “Anyway, you’re obviously burning the candle from both ends. You look dangerously close to self-destruction already, and you’re only—what—eighteen?”

“Nineteen. What are you getting at?”

“I want to impart some of my wisdom. That’s what I’m getting at.”

Eren softened a bit. His shoulders wilted; he coughed on his coffee one last time and then looked at Levi in such plain deference that Levi felt a little pity for him. Oh, to be innocent and full of hope again. Full of drive. Restless with resolve. Did Eren have any idea what wisdom Levi wished to share? They hardly even knew each other.

Levi shrugged limply. “There are rules to dating and I want you to know them so you don’t get hurt. You’re playing hardball, dating me. And I’m not going to go easy on you just because you might not understand the rules.”

“Rules? What, like—no bases on the first date? Don’t answer the first phone call? Never buy your own dinner? Don’t keep dating if you don’t get a super romantic gift for your birthday or V-Day? Don’t say the l-word until you’ve hit six months—if at all? Don’t see each other more than once or twice a week? That kind of rom-com bullshit, the highly-effective habits of highly-effective serial daters?”

Levi’s smirk twitched. He eyed Eren over his coffee. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Those aren’t the rules I’m talking about.”

Levi waited. He waited for Eren to understand this was a serious conversation, boyish wit and awkward Morning After flirting aside. And Eren did understand—after a moment. His expression cleared again. A dimple knotted between his brows; fucking adorable. Levi wanted to kiss it. Run his fingers through that messy dark hair. Smell the coffee on his kiss and the sex on his fingers. Count the hickeys he’d left under that stupid sweater.

Eren’s entire demeanor shifted. His attitude faded. He met Levi’s eyes innocently, openly. God, remember the way those straight perfect teeth had grazed his skin as his back had arched and he’d rattled out the most delicious, breathless, cracking moan—

“I’m talking about the _important_ rules. The ones that really matter in real life.” Levi held up one finger, nodding assertively. “Rule number one, Eren: Don’t have desperate makeup sex in your best friend’s honeymoon suite when you go check in for her during her wedding reception.”

Eren gawked, like he didn’t believe Levi was being serious. Levi watched it dawn on him. He didn’t sway. Not even when Eren blushed. Glanced around. Raised his brows, as if to say, _No shit?_ And then cocked his head back and laughed the most raw, amazing laugh Levi had ever heard in his life—at least, from someone under twenty-five.

And Levi decided that if Eren said he could handle it, it was worth a shot.

* * *

_To be continued._

 


	2. DON’T GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH YOUR COLLEGE ROOMMATE.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One corner of Marco's mouth perked in a tiny, dry, weary smile, like he knew instantly that Jean had fallen for him, and he absolutely pitied him for it. But that saintly smile was the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen in his life.

_Freshman year, three years ago._

Jean gave up on football.

In all honesty, it had been a pastime in high school. Something to satisfy the old man, to fatten up his reputation, to look good on a college app. Why yes, I do have a Letterman, and a class ring, but being drafted was never part of any plans for the future at all.

In juxtaposition with a football scholarship, a degree in journalism seemed weak and minuscule. But leadership on the field was not Jean’s forte; he was much more comfortable on the sidelines, or behind the curtain. His dad said journalism was a slimeball’s turf, full of slander and manipulation and reverse psychology. Journalism was for the weak according to Mr. Kirschtein, former scat back and now insurance broker, who married his class’s valedictorian and never failed to express his disappointment that Jean didn’t paint his face for all his Super Bowl parties. _Weak_. Weak to sit on your butt and tell stories about the world, rather than have people write stories about you.

But most of the time, Jean felt like the words he wrote were ten times more powerful than the words he spoke, so why not?

“I’m Marco,” said baby face with the freckles, sitting cross-legged on his bed on his side of the room, with all his things unpacked and almost put away already.

Jean stood in the doorway with his bags falling off his shoulders, evaluating the situation. He always evaluated the situation. Sometimes he evaluated the situation for far too long and missed out on being involved in the situation at all. It was the curse of being a writer.

Marco. Swim team. Adidas snap pants. Geeky striped sweater. Looked like the kind of mensch who never skipped out on flossing his teeth, and always combed his hair after a shower, and never left his laundry on the floor, and put his books on the shelf in alphabetical order (because he did), and could never watch a movie like _Pulp Fiction_ because he was far too detached from that particular realm of broken morality.

“Uh, hi,” Jean managed to stutter out, throwing his bags on his bed.

“Are you Brad?” Marco asked, eyes trained on Jean.

“No. Brad’s down the hall. We switched rooms last-second because he wanted to dorm up with one of his buddies and I figured, hey, I’m with a stranger either way, so what the fuck does it matter?”

Marco’s smile looked a little confused, like he wasn’t sure how to process Jean. Good. Arm’s distance. That was the safest. Jean had learned as much.

“So, what then?” Jean grunted, raking a hand through his hair and turning to his new roommate. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the desk chair. “Are we gonna separate our sides with duct tape, or just trust each other to respect the magic line?”

Marco blinked. He looked down at the center of the room, then back up at Jean with that same pinched smile. A look like he was far beyond the bitterness of youth. It made Jean feel stupid. Awesome.

“I don’t see a line,” Marco countered charitably, and Jean felt even stupider for being the tyrant. _Cool_.

“Have you seen ‘Pulp Fiction?’” Jean grunted.

“Yes.”

“Oh. I guessed wrong.”

“Hurry and put up your band posters and stuff. I wanna see if we have any similar tastes.”

Jean flopped down amongst his bags and frowned at Marco over his duffel. Maybe the kid was nervous to be sharing a room with a stranger, too. It was kind of cool, not being in a _dormitory_ , but in one of those houses-turned-shared-living-space within walking distance of the campus. Nice little two-bedroom bungalow, basement rec room and laundry, house leader with the loft to himself upstairs. Maybe Marco would lose his baby face before sophomore year, and he could be a great wingman. “I doubt it. But okay.”

“I won’t bother you.” Marco shrugged. He fiddled with the corner of his blanket. Was Jean making him nervous? Wicked. He was such a social tool. “We don’t have to be friends just because we’re roommates. You have to let me know, though, because honestly? I like making friends, especially with someone I’ll be sleeping in the same room with.”

Jean bristled. God, he felt like such a dick. He buried his face for a moment, ashamed of his poor first impression. It was just that they were complete opposites in that regard. Marco liked making friends; Jean struggled to hold onto his friends.

Something shifted inside. Something like being homesick, but not. Something like being lonely, but not. Something that had to do with change, in a good way. Whatever it was, Jean wasn’t sure. Maybe it didn’t even have a name, or a definition, or a prerequisite, or a precedent. It just happe      ned— _click_. Like that. And felt nice. He relaxed.

“I listen to a lot of alt rock,” Marco confessed. “Three Doors Down, The Fray, Nickelback…”

“Oh fuck, you listen to _Nickelback_?” Jean snorted, peeking at Marco over his shoulder. Marco’s smile faltered. He seemed to catch on that Jean was making fun of him. But at the same time, he seemed to understand it wasn’t a real jab. Jean sighed, rolling over onto his elbow.

“Your choice in music sucks,” he declared, “but we can still be friends.”

Marco grinned and it was like the sun breaking free of the clouds. 

* * *

_Freshman year, three years ago._

The first incident was Homecoming.

It was glittery cheerleaders in spanks and school sweatshirts and guys trying to roll keggers up front stoops galore, Husky pride and traffic congestion. Cops crashed ragers and frat houses kept awake sleepy residential neighborhoods blocks down. In some corners of the U-District, it felt as bad as Broadway during Pride. In some dorms, however, nobody gave a shit about the football game. It was just another excuse to party. And everyone was too distracted by Sasha and Christa offering up lap dances over Circle of Death downstairs in the rec room to know what went on in the room Marco and Jean shared.

Just past midnight. Jean hadn’t been this sloshed since—God, the first or second party he’d ever been to, when he’d been a fucking lightweight.

“That’s your Letterman from high school?” Marco asked, swinging back and forth in the swivel desk chair. “Looks nice.”

“Makes me look like a fucking prep,” Jean argued around a snicker.

“What were you?”

“Running back.”

“Why’d you quit?”

“It was just a high school thing.”

Marco smiled that dorky friendly smile of his, the one he flashed when he didn’t have much else to dissuade Jean’s worst tempers. Jean saw it a lot on the mornings he had class way too early, and Marco was sitting in the breakfast nook all dimples and freckles over his cereal. _I know there’s more to the story than that_ , that smile said, but Marco never pried. That was a good friend. One day they’d know everything about each other. But not yet.

“My dad hates I gave it up,” Jean grunted, flopping down on Marco’s bed. “He thinks I could’ve done something with it. But, like—why do something you’re not passionate about? That’s a waste of life. But hey, if writing fails me, I guess I’ll just be a boxer or something. Healthy outlets and all, right?”

Marco laughed. His eyes were glossy. He’d tossed back as many as Jean, but Jean had the feeling Marco held his beer a lot better. How did _that_ work?

“Your feet are on my pillow…” Marco complained.

“So?”

“It’s fine, I’ll flip it over later.”

“Problem solving.”

“Can I try it on?”

Jean perked. He shielded a tiny burp against the back of his hand, cocking a brow. “What?”

Marco stopped swinging back and forth. The smile was gone. He peered at Jean from the desk chair gravely. “Your Letterman.”

Jean sat up, dropping his feet off the side of the bed. “Why?”

“I never got one in school.”

“Sure, whatever. It’s just a fucking jacket. There’s nothing cool about it. I don’t even know why you wanna…”

Jean didn’t know why Marco wanted to try it on. But he did know that he really liked the way Marco looked in it. His Letterman. On Marco.

The sleeves danced at Marco’s wrists; they were too short. Marco was just a bit taller. But he still looked like a girlfriend, actually, that innocent cliché where the boyfriend hands over his Letterman to a sweetheart complaining of the cold.

And Jean thought he wore that cliché just as well as he wore his Letterman.

 _Thump._ Jean’s mouth was dry suddenly. His heart sank and then swiftly leapt again, fluttering below his throat. What the hell, why was he getting nervous? His face was on fire—and not because of the booze, either. He knew the difference between alcohol’s heat and the heat of a crush.

The worst part wasn’t even that Marco didn’t notice. (It was a good thing, he figured, that Marco didn’t notice, because he was staring like a lovesick idiot.) Marco just stood there in the middle of the room, eyes hooded and glazed, cheeks flushed from drinking, and he held out his arms like he found the length of the sleeves funny, and he adjusted the collar, and he turned and snuck a glance at the mirror in the corner like he was modeling in secret.

No, the worst part was the smile Marco offered after.

He turned around and caught Jean staring, and one corner of his mouth perked in a tiny, dry, weary smile, like he knew instantly that Jean had fallen for him, and he absolutely pitied him for it. Because of reputation. Because of restrictions. Because of society. Because he didn’t even have to ask to know Jean swung _that way_. Because they hadn’t even been friends for three months and Marco could already see right to the core of Jean’s insecurities and secrets. Because he knew Jean’s love came with baggage but he was willing to carry it.

And that saintly smile was the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen in his life.

Surprisingly enough, Marco didn’t taste like alcohol. His tongue was a little cold, but it wasn’t too bad. And when he sat down beside Jean on his bed, the mattress squeaked. And when Jean fumbled to cup his warm freckled face in his hands and keep their mouths together, tentative parting of lips, shy brush of tongue, twitch of the knees where they tangled together at the edge of the bed, Marco mirrored the action, so gently and so carefully sliding his fingertips up Jean’s throat, thumbs settling gingerly near his ears. Exploring the feel. Memorizing.

The bed squeaked again when Marco leaned forward and Jean blamed being drunk for the way he acquiesced and pulled Marco down on top of him without a second thought. It was weird, smelling himself when he kissed Marco because of his Letterman. God, he’d pegged Marco a virgin, but—well, just because someone was a virgin didn’t mean they couldn’t kiss, right?

“Jean… I thought you were cute the moment you walked in, but I figured you had a girlfriend or would get a girlfriend or…”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t get a girl. I’m a total bonehead.”

“Can’t get a girl or don’t want a girl?”

“Right now, I fucking want _you_ …”

Pop of the lips, don’t forget to swallow so you don’t drool on him, slick tempting heat. Marco tasted so good. Smelled so good. The way their mouths fit seemed like a puzzle finding its missing piece, and when Jean ran his fingertips up under the Letterman, under Marco’s T-shirt, Marco’s skin was fever-hot and Jean’s head spun. He felt a little melty inside.

The lingering buzz of the kisses burned on his mouth, searing the feel into his nerves to summon for scrutiny later. If he even braved scrutiny. The weight of Marco curled up in the crook of his arm was the most perfect heat he’d ever felt—no high school fuckbuddy or sweetheart could compare. This was distinctly different. This was somehow new. This was… _real_. Plastered or not.  

Laughter and shouts echoed from the basement. Cop sirens wailed by somewhere outside and a few streets up. Marco shifted. His sigh tickled Jean’s ear. His voice was tiny and hesitant. “If you’re not gay, it’s fine—we don’t have to talk about it tomorrow, or ever—”

“No, I don’t label myself, okay? Just—shut up—if we don’t talk about it, we won’t feel required to justify it. That’s what someone pretty smart about it all told me once and you know what, it’s true.”

It was kind of nice.

To understand each other, anyway. To understand it was an accident. To not feel your masculinity threatened. To feel so warm and content, and natural. There was another one of those subtle _clicks_ inside, and Jean didn’t even question it this time. He had a feeling it was something good. Something very, very good, far enough away from his judgmental father now that he didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t have to hide. Didn’t have to keep secrets. Didn’t have to feel obligated to question himself or analyze the way he felt.

_Can’t get a girl or don’t want a girl?_

Oh, Marco. Asking questions like he already knew the answers.

The music from downstairs vibrated up through the vents. Pop and hip hop had given way to sentimental rock. Pretty soon the party would dissolve into choruses of “I love you, man!”

Jean hummed to the echo of the song. It was one of his favorites. _You gotta promise not to stop when I say when…_ Oops. His fingers were swirling idly in Marco’s hair.

He didn’t stop.

Marco fell asleep in his Letterman.

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. DON'T SLEEP FACE TO FACE.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-night stands were sticky and tricky. But the one rule so many people forgot was: never sleep face to face. It was as dangerous as eye contact or keeping the lights on. Never mind you just fucked someone who ranked #7 on "People"'s Sexiest Men list five years ago and no one will believe you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that this is a braided timeline.

_February, The Other Night._

_SKY_ the little baggie said, printed over and over in faded blue, so friendly-looking, and in the bathrooms where forums of messages and phone numbers and dirty confessions crawled the walls in multicolored Sharpie, they did a few bumps and sniffed each other’s sighs to make sure they didn’t smell like bad breath or drugs, then slipped back out into the pulsing crowd to scope out some cute strangers to grind with to the beat of the song as the lights turned red and then blue and then purple and then white. Conny’s mom was epileptic, but Conny seemed to handle the flashes just fine.

Cigarette smoke.

The heat of a sweaty crowd.

The reek of spilled beer.

The throbbing bass, speaking to the base of the spine.

The DJ, like a lizard with his spikey blond hair and trippy green shirt, electrical cords twisting like thick jungle vines up to his little stage.

Neo. Semi-underground relatively new Fremont joint, dropping hits on a wide sea of bodies as at the bar Eren let the colored lights drip over him. When the colors went away and the black and white lights stuttered through the crowd, it was like the whole world became a stop-animation movie.

He wasn’t one for one-night stands.

But winter quarter just started and he and Conny and Ymir had played High Dive _and_ El Corazón since the weekend, and he had a paper due at the end of the week, and two night-shifts before Friday, and Mikasa’s and Armin’s hands were way too hot in his fingers, but they were keeping him tethered as the world seemed to spin off its axes, and it was the first night since last Thursday that he’d been free—so—fuck it, let that cutie eyeing him from the bar buy him another one of Neo’s “Green Fairy” shots, a remix of one of his favorite songs was rattling through the place, and he deserved a night off to just jump around like a wasted idiot with his friends.

Sometimes he jacked off. He was a healthy young man; it was a given. Sometimes there was Armin. He wouldn’t touch Mikasa since high school. She was too precious and perfect.

But sometimes—like on nights like tonight, a night off from the usual stretch of classes and a part-time job and jam sessions in the basement—sometimes he let himself get a little frisky and a little loose and when he left Neo with a guy named Levi, he promised to text as soon as they got There, There being Levi’s place, as long as Armin or Mikasa texted to let him know they got home safe, too.

Nervous. Horny. Tipsy. High. Unapologetic.

Eren felt bad for not paying attention to Levi’s place, because it seemed really nice. Downtown upscale studio, with _RENT_ -esque charm in the one brick wall and shining hardwood floors. Sunken living room, high ceiling, leather furniture and renovated kitchen—but Levi wouldn’t let him look around too much, keeping him busy with tempting kisses, and his hands working at the front of Eren’s pants as they stumbled up the two little steps into the bedroom nook. It was dark, anyway. It was all shadows and shapes and God, Eren was so hard already, wasn’t this crazy impatient sex drive supposed to wane after puberty, or was it around for good?

Levi’s hair was soft in his fingers. The press of his body was lean, hot, sensual. Way out of his league. Way, way out of his league. But God damn it, _so hot_ —

Flick of the wrist. Eren turned around, trying to wriggle out of his shirt. He’d dropped his coat and shoes somewhere between the front door and here. Levi’s arms locked immediately around him from behind, hands diving down the front of his jeans. Eren’s knees buckled. Bed. Bed. Make it to the bed before you fall.

He tried to pull free of Levi even though he really liked the way his breath felt down his neck, the nip of his teeth at his shoulder. He couldn’t move with Levi wrapped around him from behind like that. He shuffled forward. Managed to trip over his own two feet but the bed caught him. Oh, bed.

Levi followed him down, wandering hands, wandering mouth, and the heat and the pressure and the press of him hard behind the fly of his pants was stupefying in a good way.

“Shirt—shirt—take off your shirt—” Eren choked out, struggling to roll over under him.

Off went the shirt. In the moonlight that trickled through the blinds, Eren counted three tattoos. Words, up the inner part of Levi’s right arm. A set of wings. Something in Latin on Levi’s side.

Levi’s tongue went deep in his mouth and Eren wanted him bad. Rough hands. Fingers knotted in hair. Tangle of bodies intimidating because guys weren’t delicate like girls were delicate. The kisses were possessive, heated, a drunken clash for dominance. Everyone knew you couldn’t have two leaders in a kiss, but guys were natural leaders, weren’t they, and that was the fun part. Fighting for the lead. Rip of a condom wrapper.

Levi pressed him down into the blankets and nudged his legs further apart with a casual knee. Hey, wait—

“When did I volunteer for the bottom?” Eren hissed, trying not to be distracted by how smooth and tight Levi’s muscles were under his beseeching hands.

Levi frowned down, perplexed silhouette. But he didn’t reply. At least, not with words. He rolled his hips down and Eren arched into it, accidentally. His dick throbbed. Ready. Touch me touch me touch me. Oops, guess he answered his own question, huh?

Levi ran a knuckle along the line of Eren’s jaw. Ducking low so Eren couldn’t meet his eyes, he whispered, raw and ragged, “I want you…”

“Yeah?” Fuckfuckfuck why did that get to him? Unh, twitch of the hips. His stomach was in knots. This was torture. Blissful torture. He needed to get his pants unbuttoned because it was starting to hurt, tight as they were across his hard-on.

“Can I have you?”

“Yeah…” Eren dug his fingers down. He choked on his racing heart for a moment or two, but you know what, he was not a scaredy-cat. Mikasa said his moral compass was jammed; Armin said he was reckless. But Eren liked to think he was just fearless and ready for anything life threw at him and he was going to wear that crown of thorns with stubborn pride.

He covered his head with a pillow.

It was a little easier to accept it that way, that he loved this assault on all the senses once he didn’t have to worry about Levi seeing the stupid look on his face, just in case it was embarrassing or too enthusiastic as the chords of dizzying pleasure shuddered through him, layered with the hot white pain of Levi’s sex stiff and prodding.

Maybe Levi went slow. Maybe he didn’t. Eren was too wasted to tell the difference, too mesmerized by the way their hips moved together. Fuck, shit, yes, more, he’d always thought about trying this out but a finger or two was all he’d ever accomplished and Armin had really liked that—

He cried out into Levi’s pillow, muffling the sounds of delight and the way they cracked and shivered in his throat as he came into the sheets.

Levi lit a cigarette after, pushing up the big window near the fire escape and sitting on the sill in nothing but his shorts.

Eren watched him from his blanket cocoon on the bed, a little sore and a little shocked (and crashing a tiny bit). _Levi._ The name tasted beautiful. Slim arms, distant eyes. Messy dark hair. He’d just had sex with this guy. And he was sort of happy about it. Though that was subject to change come sunrise and sobriety.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” Levi husked from the window.

“Yeah, you’re the guy who played the Captain on ‘Survey Corps,’” Eren mumbled, offering an idle shrug. And then it dawned on him in one whopping crash of realization. Confident cocaine clarity was not one in the same with logic, after all. “Oh my God, you’re _him_ , though! The Captain! We used to watch that show—every Tuesday night—”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t said anything about it.”

“Why the hell are you living up here?”

“Because…it’s where I live?”

“Holy fuck, I just had sex with the Captain!”

“No, you didn’t. That’s not me anymore. I’m an editor at Smith & Zoe Lit. I haven’t been the Captain since I left the show and acting in general back in 2006.”

Eren shut up. He had enough sense in him to know when and when not to ask things like, _But why did you quit?_ Like a lazy cat looking for a spill of sun to nap in, Levi slid out of the window and closed it again.

“You _are_ pretty tiny in person,” Eren whispered.

Levi cast him a disdainful look, but it seemed on the brink of laughter. “Excuse me?”

“Shit, where’s my phone?”

Eren texted his friends and dropped his phone off the side of the bed. He was so dizzy, it was like he’d just gotten off a teacup ride from hell. He didn’t even care that he’d lost his shorts, or that Levi’s stalking silhouette was gone because Levi was jumping through the shower. Eren rolled away from the mess they’d made and pulled the blankets up over his head, the hissing echo of the shower soothing like rain on the roof. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

“Roll over,” Levi mumbled, waking him up just to nudge him out of the middle of the bed, smelling fresh out of the shower. Skin tacky and radiating heat. “One-night stands can’t sleep face to face, idiot. Don’t you know anything?”

* * *

_February, The Morning After_.

“Mom! Mom, look!”

His bare feet slapped on the hardwood as he bounded down the hall from the front door, having dropped backpack and shoes there without a second thought. The metallic screech and groan of the school bus lurching forward at the stop sign echoed in his ears.

His mom’s hair was down, Scrunchie on her wrist. She was in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed folding laundry. She took the wide construction paper from Eren where he hovered over her shoulder excitedly, impatiently, hands on her shoulders as he awaited her inevitable praise.

“Okay, okay, don’t have a conniption,” she said as she looked over the art project he’d brought home for her to see. “What is this, hnm? Oh, wow, look at that! ‘A beautiful imagination’, your teacher wrote in the corner… That’s my baby.”

Eren’s throat tightened with thick hot emotion.

He wasn’t dreaming about her. That would have been too perfect, dreaming about her. But he didn’t dream about her. No, he was just thinking, just drifting inadvertently in memories because he didn’t want to get up. This bed was too warm and comfortable. The odd peace of the morning was too succoring. It felt too good with his eyes closed, strung thankfully somewhere between not enough sleep and too much sleep but he could feel the headache biding its time before sinking its teeth into his skull.

His stomach soured and when he opened his eyes, it was to a studio apartment filled with morning light glaringly brutal on his hangover.

Oh.

Levi’s apartment.

Eren rolled out of the bed with a couple of thuds and crawled carefully around the room, gathering what clothes of his he could find. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and then all the reality of what had happened last night came crashing down on him without mercy.

The club, the flirting, smoking a cigarette while the light from streetlamps swam in and out of the car, sexy stranger Levi and his thin warm hands in his pants last night, teasing and groping while he’d been hard and hot and ready and Eren had begged for more beneath him—

Eren covered his face and uttered a long mortified moan into his fingers.

Shit, was the guy awake already?

Eren didn’t chance it. Instead of looking around, he flopped down on the bed again and wrapped himself in the thick white comforter, hoping maybe he might suffocate and die before having to see Levi again, and holy shit was he sore inside from the sex!

Oh, to think of it in those terms… Eren gawked up at the ceiling, frozen in place again. These alternating waves of shock and embarrassment and rage and pride were crippling.

He’d slept with the guy who’d played the Captain on _Survey Corps_. In the Captain’s bed, where the Captain very well could have slept with many other people, in the Captain’s apartment, a drunken fling with the guy he’d watched on TV and who was going to believe him? Oh God, he’d fucked a retired celebrity. Actually, a retired celebrity had fucked him. Oh God, don’t think about it that way. Okay, there was nothing around the place that would even remotely suggest to someone Levi was the guy from _Survey Corps_ and a critically-acclaimed movie or two(except, of course, for Levi himself, but Levi wasn’t there). So he’d fucked the ghostof a celebrity who apparently lived in Seattle working a plain Jane job now. Oh God, this was more like some naïve fantasy, straight from between the covers of the good old-fashioned dime store novels—

He didn’t have the time or the wits to analyze this right now. 

Eren listened quietly. Nothing. It seemed he was alone in the apartment. The side of the bed he hadn’t slept in wasn’t made, but there were towels hanging up in the master bath that looked freshly used again this morning. There was the smell of aftershave and clean crisp cologne, and cigarette smoke and fresh coffee teasing him from the kitchen.

Eren wanted a smoke, too. Badly. What time was it, anyway? He staggered down into the empty apartment. The digital clock on the microwave said it was nearing eleven o’clock in the morning. Wonderful, he’d missed his first class of the day. His eye caught on a sticky note in the middle of the island counter. In bold, neat print it read: _I left for work. Feel free to grab coffee or food before you go._ It was signed with a capital _L_ , and nothing else.

The relief washed through him, like the inundation of a hot shower or the kiss of fresh rain.

Eren got a cup of coffee and sat in his shorts for a moment at the windows, admiring the view. The downtown high-rises, the Ferris wheel on the pier, the pale sunlight scintillating off the water. He was stiff and groggy, and terribly congested—and he wanted to find the rest of his clothes because even with the heat on, it was still a little chilly, chilly enough for goose-bumps and hardening nipples.

Funny.

Weren’t you supposed to hate yourself after casual sex?

Eren wasn’t displeased at all.

* * *

_To be continued._

 

**Author's Note:**

> wah. i just wanna write snk fic, lol. snk drabbles & one-shots, a collection of first dates. repeated pairings, diff. scenarios. fluff & smut & everything in between. may or may not actually refer to dating “rules.” may or may not abuse songs/lyrics that make me want to write scenes of cute or going at it like rabbits. maybe they’ll connect. maybe they won’t. also, acceptable canon ages (like Levi’s “30-ish”) are intact. others fast-forwarded to college years. 
> 
> WILL TAKE PROMPTS. :)


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